


The Problem of Baskerville

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Series: John Moriarty [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, AU of an AU, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Gen, John is Moriarty, Moriarty!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's known for some time now that John is really John Moriarty, criminal mastermind. But during a case down in Dartmoor involving a mysterious, gigantic hound, Sherlock makes a mistake that could end their unlikely friendship forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem of Baskerville

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a 'what-if?' fic that's sort of a sequel to 'Impersonation', which asks the question: what if John Moriarty were there for the Baskerville case, and how would he react to certain things from that episode?
> 
> This is not officially part of the same universe as 'Impersonation': more like an AU of that verse. I don't know how good this is, because I had to base it almost entirely off the show and dear god that was boring, but hey. I'll see what you guys think. Why did I write this? I don't even know, I've written 11,000 words and I am so sick of this fic now.
> 
> You can thank akuma_river for this fic, because they made a comment on 'Impersonation' that got me thinking, and then I couldn't stop.

**The Problem of Baskerville**

John glances up as Sherlock arrives home, holding a harpoon and covered in blood. Anyone else might be shocked or surprised, but few things really surprise John any more.

“Well, that was tedious,” says Sherlock, breathing heavily.

“None of the cabs would take you, then?” John asks idly.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snarls, and stomps upstairs to take a shower. John grins to himself and shuts his laptop, moving to look at the pile of newspapers he acquired earlier in the day. In this sort of mood, Sherlock’s going to need something to keep him busy.

When Sherlock comes downstairs, wearing his dressing-down and with the harpoon in his hand, it’s to find John sitting at the table with newspapers spread out around him.

“Anything?” he asks impatiently. John ‘hmms’ and continues flicking through newspapers.

“Military coup in Uganda,” John muses. “That could be profitable.”

“Gun-running?”

“Mmm-hmm. Among other things.” John pages through the paper, and snickers. “Another photo of you with the, er…” He points to the photo of Sherlock wearing the hated deerstalker hat. Sherlock makes a disgusted noise, and John moves to the next paper. 

“Cabinet reshuffle,” John says, just to see Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock glares at him.

“Nothing of importance?” Sherlock asks desperately, and John shakes his head sympathetically.

“Although I’m sure I could come up with something sufficiently clever to keep you entertained, if you want.” He has a couple of projects on the back-burner that could be moved ahead.

Sherlock gives John a faintly alarmed look, the way he sometimes does when John starts talking about his secret identity as Moriarty.

“No good,” he says. “I’d know it was you.” He brings the end of the harpoon down hard on the floor and lets out a roar of rage. “ _Oh, God_.” He stares at John intently. “John, I need some. Get me some.”

“Not your butler,” John reminds him. 

“Get me some,” Sherlock repeats. John smiles serenely at him.

“No. Anyway, you’ve paid everyone off, remember? No one in a two-mile radius’ll sell to you.”

“Then I’ll go somewhere else,” Sherlock says.

“And my people made sure that no one in London will sell cigarettes to a tall, dark-haired man meeting your description,” John adds, because he never claimed not to be a bit of a bastard.

Sherlock stares speechlessly, and glances at the harpoon in his hand.

“Stab me with that, and I will make you regret it,” John says mildly.

Sherlock gives up on John and begins madly searching the flat for cigarettes. He won’t find any, of course; John is as clever as he is, and deduced where Sherlock hid his secret stashes ages ago. The only reason he never touched them before now was that he never had a reason to. The remaining cigarettes were all disposed of this morning.

Sherlock lets out a howl of anguish as he finds that a single nicotine patch has replaced the cigarettes he’d hidden in one of his slippers. 

John knows that it’s not very nice of him to find the scene amusing. But then, he’s always known he’s not a nice man.

“Yoo-hoo!” Ms Hudson calls out, as she walks in.

“My secret supply,” Sherlock says to John manically, “What have you done with my secret supply?”

“Eh?” Mrs Hudson looks puzzled.

“I got rid of his cigarettes,” John explains calmly. Sherlock makes a sound of frustration, and grabs hold of the harpoon again. John meets Mrs Hudson’s eyes, and mimes offering a drink. Mrs Hudson looked back at Sherlock. 

“How about a nice cuppa, and perhaps you could put away your harpoon.”

The way that Mrs Hudson says that like it’s a perfectly ordinary request is lovely. There are times when John is practically ecstatic that he decided to move in with Sherlock. He’s almost never bored. Maddened and enraged at times, certainly, but not bored.

“I need something stronger than tea,” says Sherlock. “Seven per _cent_ stronger.” He points the harpoon at Mrs Hudson accusingly. “You’ve been to see Mr Chatterjee again.”

Oh no. John knows where this is going. He’s spent the last day or so wondering how to put it tactfully to Mrs Hudson, and now Sherlock is just going to bluntly come out with it.

“Pardon?” says Mrs Hudson, looking startled and sprung.

“Sandwich shop,” Sherlock announces, waving the harpoon at her. “That’s a new dress, but there’s flour on the sleeve. You wouldn’t dress like that for baking.”

“Sherlock...” John warns, but Sherlock ignores him.

“Thumbnail: tiny traces of foil. Been at the scratch cards again. We all know where that leads, don’t we?”

“What Sherlock is trying to say,” John interrupts hastily, and as apologetically as he can, “is that Mr Chatterjee is married. He has a wife in Doncaster he’s been keeping secret.”

“What?” Mrs Hudson looks shocked.

“I’m sorry,” John says, before Sherlock can open his mouth again. Sherlock lets out an angry huff. “I know you like him.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Looking upset, Mrs Hudson leaves the room in a hurry, and John sighs. Sherlock just perches on his chair like a large, frantically irritable bird.

“Was that really necessary?” John asks.

“How do you stand it, John?” Sherlock asks, ignoring John’s question. “My mind is like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad. I need a case!”

“You’ve just solved one!” John tells him, exasperated with Sherlock’s antics. Sherlock has more dramatic moods than a heroine in a romance novel.

“That was this morning!” Sherlock began drumming his fingers on his chair and stomping his feet on the floor. John would consider having his flatmate kidnapped for a few hours, except that it would only make Sherlock worse.

“Look, there’s a case on your website that might hold some promise,” John says. Sherlock instantly perks up, and stops the noise. “A little girl left a message about how her pet rabbit vanished–”

“Ugh!” Sherlock flings himself backwards to drape himself over the chair.

“-from a locked hutch, with no signs of forced entry, and before the rabbit vanished, it turned luminous.”

Sherlock’s mouth is open, ready to shout, when he stops. Shuts it again. His expression turns intense, and John knows he’s thinking about the same possibilities that went through John’s mind earlier.

They’re both distracted as the doorbell rings.

“Single ring,” says John thoughtfully.

“Maximum pressure just under the half second,” Sherlock says.

“Client,” they say together.

* * *

Henry Knight is a diffident, somewhat twitchy young man, determined to seek help but rather nervous about how Sherlock and John are going to react.

He’s brought a documentary with him, and John and Sherlock watch the first few minutes before Sherlock switches it off. John has to admit, it was rather sensationalist, and unlikely to share anything useful.

“What did you see?” Sherlock asks abruptly. Knight is clearly rather taken-aback, but anyone who expects Sherlock to willingly sit through that sort of drivel clearly isn’t familiar with certain aspects of his reputation. Haltingly – clearly beginning to regret coming to Sherlock for help – Knight recounts how his father was killed by a giant hound, a product, he believes, of the Baskerville experiments.

John’s seen enough, though. As Moriarty, he’s privy to all kinds of information that the average person isn’t, and he’s heard a thing or two about Baskerville before. He pulls out the sleek, black smartphone that doesn’t belong to John Watson, and sends off a quick text to Moran requesting information on Baskerville.

Sherlock’s eyes flick to the phone, of course; he knows that everything that John does as Moriarty currently goes through that phone.

“I can’t remember anything else,” says Knight. Despite how many years have passed, the marks of trauma the experience left on him are still quite obvious. “They found me the next morning, just wandering on the moor. My dad’s body was never found.”

“That’s an interesting description,” John says delicately. “Red eyes, coal-black fur? Do you think maybe, it was a wolf?”

“Or a genetic experiment,” Sherlock puts in, biting back a smile at Knight’s expense. John frowns at him. He understands Sherlock’s skepticism – Knight’s description is more reminiscent of a demon dog from folklore than any living animal – but John also knows how terror can twist the memory, turn something innocuous into something  dark and frightening. John’s used it to his advantage at times.

Knight stares at Sherlock.

“Are you laughing at me, Mr. Holmes?” There’s a surprising amount of dignity in his expression and his voice as he asks the question.

“Why, are you joking?” Sherlock returns.

“My dad was always going on about the things they were doing at Baskerville,” says Knight, “about the type of monsters they were breeding there. People used to laugh at him. At least the TV people took me seriously.”

“And, I assume, did wonders for Devon tourism,” Sherlock drawls.

John leans forward, in an attempt to stop Sherlock’s quiet mockery. He doesn’t believe Knight’s story, but he’s willing to believe that there’s a genuine mystery behind it. After all, _something_ left Knight with a terrible memory, and was responsible for his father going missing. And whatever drove Knight to catch the first train available to London early this morning, he clearly believes it’s important, even if he hasn’t mentioned it yet. 

“Henry,” John says as kindly as possible, “whatever did happen to your father, it was twenty years ago. Why come to us now?”

Henry ignores him, staring at Sherlock.

“I’m not sure you can help me, Mr. Holmes, since you find it all so funny.” He stands and begins walking towards the door, but Sherlock’s next words pull him up short.

“Because of what happened last night.”

“You might as well tell us, while you’re here,” John adds.

“How… how do you know?” Knight looks shaken.

“I didn’t know; I noticed,” says Sherlock. “You came up from Devon on the first available train this morning. You had a disappointing breakfast and a cup of black coffee. The girl in the seat across the aisle fancied you. Although you were initially keen, you’ve now changed your mind. You are, however, extremely anxious to have your first cigarette of the day. Sit down, Mr. Knight, and do _please_ smoke. I’d be delighted.”

John sighs, pulls a nicotine patch out of his pocket, and sticks it to Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock scowls at him. Knight blinks at the both of them, before hesitantly taking his seat again.

“How on earth did you notice all that?” Henry asks, sounding stunned, but his defensive air had lapsed a little.

“He’s a detective, it’s what he does,” says John, but Sherlock refuses to be cut off. Instead, he launches into his usual spiel, listing off everything he noticed and how he put it together to reach the conclusions he did. By the time he’s done, Henry is staring in amazement.

“Am I wrong?” Sherlock asks, and Knight draws a shaky breath.

“No. You’re right. You’re completely, exactly right. Bloody hell, I heard you were quick.”

“It’s my job,” says Sherlock, looking a little smug at Knight’s awed reaction.

“Henry,” John says, sitting forward, “Why did you return to Dartmoor?”

“Oh,” says Knight. “Doctor Mortimer – she thinks I should face my demons.”

“Your therapist?” John asks, and Knight nods. 

“And what happened when you went back to Dewer’s Hollow last night, Henry?” Sherlock cuts in. “You went there on the advice of your therapist and now you’re consulting a detective. What did you see that changed everything?”

So Knight tells them, after a little prompting. John and Sherlock look at each other.

The footprints of a giant hound? The footprints themselves aren’t noteworthy, but the word Knight’s chosen to use is – why ‘hound?’ It’s an archaic word, and the rest of Knight’s vocabulary has been as contemporary as John would expect. So why call it a hound, instead of a dog?

“I’ll take the case,” says Sherlock. “John. Baskerville. Ever heard of it?”

John’s phone pings with a return text from Moran. He glances at it, and sees that Moran has sent him a file.

“Vaguely,” says John. “Very hush-hush.” John’s never paid much attention to Baskerville; his interest lie elsewhere. But no doubt his people will be able to dig up an adequate amount of information for him.

“Sounds like a good place to start,” says Sherlock.

“You’ll come down, then?” Knight looks pleased.

“No, I can’t leave London at the moment. Far too busy. Don’t worry – putting my best man onto it.” He walks over and pats John on the shoulder. John glares at him.

“Sherlock, we’ve had the discussion about my exact relationship to crime before,” John says, and sees Sherlock’s lips twitch. “If you want to solve the case, do it yourself.”

“But the rabbit, John,” Sherlock explains, “the case of the vanishing luminous rabbit!”

John continues to glare at him until he gives in.

“You go on ahead, Henry, we’ll follow later.”

“So, you are coming, then?” Henry asks hopefully.

“Twenty year old disappearance; a monstrous hound? I wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Sherlock says, grinning widely. Clearly, his craving for cigarettes has been forgotten, at least for the moment.

John sends another text to Moran.

_ Find me anything to do with Baskerville and hounds. I want it within the next 48 hours. Be thorough. _

John waits until Knight has left before he looks through the file Moran has sent him.

There isn’t that much information that Moran could send about Baskerville, not on such short notice, but he’s sent what information he was able to gather. It includes a list of Baskerville’s staff, and one of the names is familiar: Doctor Stapleton, whose expertise is, apparently, in genetics.

John grabs his laptop and brings up Sherlock’s website. Sure enough, the little girl who had sent in the story about the rabbit is named Kristy Stapleton.

“Well,” says John, “that solves that.”

“What?” Sherlock asks, appearing and peering over John’s shoulder. “Oh. The rabbit.” He blinks at John, and puts it together. “The information you received about Baskerville. One of her parents works there.”

“Who else would have been able to remove the rabbit so easily?” John agrees. “Her mother, for the record: Dr Stapleton, who’s primarily known for her work in genetic manipulation.”

“Hence the glowing rabbit,” says Sherlock. “The question is, has she been working on something more dangerous than a rabbit?”

“That’s not exactly difficult,” John muses. “So, will we go down tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock frowns. “I was thinking this afternoon.” John sends him a look. “Fine. Tomorrow it is.”

John pulls out the black smartphone again. Ordinarily he has someone following him at all times, which is easy enough in London; all you need is a sniper or two on the rooftops, no problem. But out in Dartmoor, it’s going to be a bit more difficult. John sends another text to Moran.

_ Will be heading out to Dartmoor tomorrow. No shadow will be necessary for the duration. _

* * *

They drive down the next day, and when they get there, check into the local inn. It seems like a nice enough place, although John isn’t sure about the vegetarian cuisine. He likes his meat, thanks.

The locals seem to be milking the story of Knight’s dread hound for all they’re worth, telling horror stories and generally intriguing the tourists. John listens with half an ear as he and Sherlock walk into the inn.

“Sorry we couldn’t do a double room for you boys,” says the manager cheerfully, as he hands John the keys. Sherlock is busy looking around.

“That’s fine,” says John. “We’re not…” The manager looks at him knowingly, and John gives up. Instead, he hands over the money for the drink he’s just bought. “There you go.”

“Oh, ta. I’ll just get your change.” The manager walks over to the till. John looks around idly, and his eyes fall on a set of invoices and receipts. One of them, he notices, is for Undershaw Meat Supplies. John’s eyebrows rise, and he quickly slips the invoice into his pocket. An inn with a vegetarian restaurant, ordering that much meat? Something is up, there.

When the manager comes back, John engages him in conversation. The man is happy enough to talk about Baskerville, and how it damages tourism to the area, and the fact that the recent documentary about the ‘Baskerville hound’ has brought in a whole lot of monster-enthusiasts hoping for a glimpse of the animal. He points out a man named Fletcher who’s standing outside, who runs the tourist Monster Walks. He claims to have seen the hound himself. 

“That’s handy for trade,” John observes dryly. Sherlock immediately turns and heads outside, to question Fletcher. John fishes for more information, but when none is forthcoming, he joins Sherlock outside. 

With a suitable ruse, Fletcher is willing to talk to John and Sherlock about the hound. He shows them a blurry photo of some large animal, and Sherlock is appropriately skeptical. Undeterred, Fletcher continues.

“I had a mate once who worked for the M.O.D. One weekend we were meant to go fishing, but he never showed up – well, not until late. When he did, he was white as a sheet. I can see him now. ‘ _I’ve seen things today, Fletch_ ,’ he said, _‘that I never want to see again. Terrible things.’_ He’d been sent to some secret Army place – Porton Down, maybe, maybe Baskerville, or somewhere else.” 

Fletcher leans closer, and lowers his voice.

“In the labs there – the really secret labs, he said he’d seen… terrible things. Rats as big as dogs, he said, and dogs…” With a slight flourish, Fletcher produces a plaster cast of a dog’s footprint that is at least six inches long from heel to claw-tip. “…dogs the size of horses.”

John and Sherlock both stare. Fletcher smiles triumphantly.

* * *

Later, they drive down to the Baskerville facility. John is curious to see how Sherlock intends to get them in. Baskerville is one of the most security-conscious places in the country, and Sherlock’s usual tricks aren’t going to get them in this time.

But when one of the guards stops the jeep, Sherlock produces a security pass.

“So,” John asks in amusement, “should I ask how you got the pass?” He knows that there’s only one person Sherlock could have gotten this kind of security pass from, and that’s Mycroft. But somehow, John doesn’t see Mycroft giving Sherlock such a pass voluntarily. 

Sherlock shrugs, as though it’s Mycroft’s fault that his brother doesn’t guard either his pocket or his desk well enough. Pocket, John decides; Mycroft would know if Sherlock went through his things, and have a look to see what was missing. But John’s seen Sherlock pick Lestrade’s pocket to steal his pass before, and has no doubt that Sherlock could do the same to Mycroft easily enough. The only question is why Mycroft didn’t notice it was missing, and have it invalidated. Hmm.

“How long have we got before the pass is invalidated?” John asks, genuinely wondering how Sherlock got hold of the pass. From Sherlock’s smug little smile, he knows exactly what John is really thinking.

“Until Mycroft realises what we’re doing,” Sherlock replies.

The pass gets them part-way through the facility before, all of a sudden, it doesn’t. Major Barrymore isn’t happy about his base being invaded by John and Sherlock, and when the corporal tells him that they’ve just received a message that the ID Sherlock is using is unauthorised, he looks furious.

John is resigning himself to being imprisoned for however long Mycroft holds a grudge for, when quite unexpectedly, he and Sherlock are rescued by one of the staff members, Bob Frankland, who swears that he’s met Mycroft Holmes before. He offers to escort John and Sherlock back outside.

John exchanges a glance with Sherlock, intrigued by this unexpected turn of events. The two of them walk outside with Frankland.

It turns out that the man is a fan of John’s blog, and of Sherlock. He also turns out to be an old friend of Henry’s father. He seems quite ready to answer any questions until Sherlock asks him about Dr Stapleton. Then he clams up, claiming that he refuses to speak ill of a colleague, which is telling enough in itself.

Afterwards, they head out to Henry Knight’s place, where he tells them a little more about his recollections of the night his father disappeared. The words ‘liberty’ and ‘in’ are firmly embedded in his memory, although Knight can’t remember exactly why. 

Sherlock tells him that tonight, the three of them are going to go out onto the moor, and see if anything attacks them. Knight is understandably dubious about this plan, but agrees.

That night, they head out onto the moor.

* * *

John is separated from the other two in the darkness of the moor. When John finds them again, Henry is pale and shaken, but convinced he’s seen the hound again, and Sherlock? Sherlock is in the blackest mood John has seen him in for a while.

John allows the silence until they get back to the inn. Sherlock sinks into one of the chairs by the fire. John takes the other. He can hear Sherlock breathing heavily, notices the way his hands are faintly trembling, and reaches his own conclusions.

“You saw something, didn’t you.” Sherlock says nothing. “You saw something, but not just any something. Something illogical, something that couldn’t be explained – something that was enough to frighten you.”

John leans forward, scanning his friend from top to toe. What he sees is perturbing.

“You’re _still_ afraid. I’ve seen you in scary situations before, and I’ve only seen you frightened once, and even then, you weren’t like this. So what happened, Sherlock? What did you see?”

Sherlock takes another deep breath, meets John’s eyes for maybe a second before he glances away again, back towards the fire.

“I saw the hound.” His voice is shaking. His face twists as he admits it. “Out by the hollow, I saw a gigantic hound.”

John sits back, staring at him. Well. The existence of an actual dog isn’t that much of a surprise; he’s suspected something of the sort ever since he saw the inn’s invoice for Undershaw Meat Supplies. But Sherlock, terrified of a dog? It still doesn’t make sense.

Acting on a hunch, John pulls out his pocket flashlight and shines it into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock shies away, but not before John sees how hugely dilated his pupils are. 

John takes Sherlock’s arm and slides up the sleeve, and takes his pulse. Sherlock watches him quietly, making no move to pull away, even though he tenses at John’s touch.

Sherlock’s pulse is racing. That, combined with the dilated pupils, could just be because of the fear he’s experiencing… or, the fear could be a symptom along with the dilated pupils and accelerated heartbeat.

John swears, and sits back.

“I think you’ve been drugged.”

Sherlock stares at him, eyes wide. 

“What?”

“Your symptoms match up with certain kinds of drugs,” John explains. “So did Knight’s, although he showed signs of mania as well. Your accelerated heartbeat and dilated pupils – they’re both potentially drug-induced side-effects. They could just be from the fear you’ve been experiencing, I admit, but given how out-of-character it is for you to be terrified in this situation–”

“I’ve been drugged,” Sherlock finishes for him, voice heavy with realisation. “So has Henry.” He frowns. “But not you.”

John shrugs.

“Evidently I wasn’t exposed to it, somehow,” he says. “But you two were.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sherlock breathes. “I couldn’t understand why I was behaving so erratically.”

“Well, now you know,” says John, a little grimly. “You should probably have some food and water, it might help clear it out of your system faster, if it’s something you ingested.”

“I’m fine,” says Sherlock. “I don’t need to eat.”

John eyes him narrowly, but lets it go.

“Well, _I’m_ hungry,” he says pointedly. “I’m going to grab something to eat.”

When he returns, Sherlock is talking, apparently earnestly, to a pretty woman around John’s age. John looks her over as he approaches, cataloguing everything he sees.

“John, meet Louise Mortimer,” Sherlock says, smiling thinly. He’s stopped trembling, but John can see the effort that keeping up a casual front is taking him. “This is Dr John Watson, my colleague.”

“Oh, you’re Henry’s therapist, then?” John asks, giving her his best charming smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I was just talking to Ms Mortimer–”

“Oh, call me Louise, please,” she interjects, glancing briefly at Sherlock before smiling at John.

“–about the case,” Sherlock finishes smoothly. “I thought that before we proceed any further, it would be a good idea to get her opinion.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” John says, and takes over from Sherlock. “Tell me, how do you feel about us taking on this case? I mean, as a doctor, when I heard that Henry was convinced that there was a giant, devilish dog roaming the countryside, I admit I was a little concerned.”

Mortimer sighs.

“I can’t really talk about Henry – patient confidentiality, you know. But I agree that it’s a little worrying.”

“You were hoping that by coming out here he could get closure, then?” John asks, making his best sympathetic face, even though he isn’t really sympathetic. In his view, sending a man as affected by trauma as Henry Knight out to relive it was a foolish move.

“I hoped that he’d be able to see that his fears were baseless.” Mortimer sighs again.

John glances at Sherlock, then leans in closer to Mortimer.

“Actually, we did find something you should probably know about,” he says in a low tone. “There’s evidence that someone he knows might be drugging Henry.” Mortimer puts a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening in shock. “Which, obviously, if it’s true, will be affecting his mental health…”

“Oh, God. Yes, of course it would.” Mortimer’s nodding, looking disturbed.

“We’d just like you to keep an eye on his mental condition,” John adds smoothly. “If someone _is_ drugging him we will of course bring it to the police, but we thought you might wish to remain apprised of the situation.” He hands Mortimer one of Sherlock’s business cards. “If you hear anything that might help us pinpoint the culprit, or help our investigation…”

“Of course,” Mortimer agrees. “God, how terrible. Poor Henry.”

John thanks her, and she walks away to take a seat by the bar. Sherlock, meanwhile, has disappeared in the direction of his room.

John sighs, and glances at his watch. It’s a bit early, but after running around on the moor, he’s tired. He might as well turn in.

He checks his black smartphone before he goes to sleep. Still no reply from Moran. 

* * *

They check on Knight the next morning. Sherlock goes prowling around the cupboards, on the pretext of making coffee, while John talks to Knight.

“How are you feeling?” John asks, watching Knight closely. The man looks tired and pale, with dark circles ringing his eyes.

“I’m… I didn’t sleep very well,” Knight admits. “Listen, Sherlock…”

“What about him?” John asks, already able to guess.

“Last night, he said he didn’t see anything, but I know he saw the hound,” says Knight, immediately confirming John’s guess. “I mean, I only saw it for a minute, but…”

“Sherlock doesn’t respond very well to fear,” John says kindly. “Between you and me, he was a bit embarrassed about his reaction last night.”

“Oh.” Knight looks relieved, and a little hopeful. “So he did see it, then? He told you?”

“Told me all about it,” John assures him, as Sherlock returns from Knight’s cupboard without the cup of coffee he claimed to be making. “Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this. But tell me, have you been feeling at all off this morning? Any nausea, disorientation…?”

“Not really,” says Knight, shaking his head, as Sherlock heads for the front door.

“Right,” says John. “Well, we’ll be in touch as soon as we have anything.”

* * *

When they walk in to find Lestrade waiting for them back at the inn, John’s first thought is Mycroft. Why else would Lestrade be here? He’s clearly just back from his holidays, so he’d hardly take more leave without a good reason, and no doubt Mycroft has decided that John’s influence isn’t enough to keep Sherlock away from Baskerville, not after John helped with their illicit visit to the facility. This does raise the intriguing question of exactly how much contact Mycroft has with Lestrade, and what he has over him that made Lestrade agree, but those are concerns for later.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Sherlock demands, and John almost rolls his eyes at his lack of social graces.

“Mycroft, obviously,” says John. “I suppose he got a bit irritated with you using his pass to enter top-security facilities, and decided we needed a babysitter.” He smiles at Lestrade. “How’ve you been, Greg?”

Lestrade’s lips are twitching at the ‘babysitter’ comment. Sherlock looks sour.

“Oh, I’m alright,” Lestrade grins. “Just back from holidays. What about you? You after this hound of hell like on the telly?”

“Sort of,” John replies. “Actually, you might be just the man we want.”

“What?” Sherlock snaps. “Why?”

John pulls out the invoice he nicked from the inn the day before.

“Because,” he says mildly, showing Sherlock the invoice, “this is a lot of meat for a vegetarian restaurant, don’t you think?” He passes the invoice to Lestrade. “There’ve been a lot of reports of a large black dog in the area, lately, and the staff here seem pretty invested in keeping the hound story alive. What do you want to bet that the increase in sightings isn’t just a fluke?”

“You think they’ve been using a dog to scare the tourists?” Lestrade asks.

“You didn’t tell me this,” Sherlock frowns. John shrugs. 

“I wanted to see what came of it, first. Didn’t want to look like an idiot if my hunch was wrong.”

“You always look like an idiot,” Sherlock says irritably.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Eventually someone’s bound to work out it’s camouflage,” Sherlock adds. John wonders why he can’t just compliment someone in a way that isn’t insulting.

John looks to Lestrade.

“What do you think? Enough to ask a few pointed questions?”

“Might as well give it a try,” says Lestrade.

While Lestrade and Sherlock are busy bullying the inn’s manager and chef into giving up their financial records, John ducks up to his room. He has a gut feeling that at some point this case is going to go badly wrong, and while he relies primarily on logical reasoning, he’s learnt not to ignore his intuition.

His gun is packed in with the rest of the things he brought, along with an underarm holster. John pulls off his jumper and fits on the holster, before putting his jumper back on. Under the bulky garment the handarm is easily concealed. John might not end up needing it, but better to be prepared than not.

When he returns, Lestrade is going over the inn’s paperwork, the chastened manager and chef sitting opposite him. Sherlock is sitting alone at a nearby table with two cups of tea in front of him.

“Is one of these for me?” John asks, even though he already knows.

“Obviously,” Sherlock responds. 

John takes a sip, and grimaces at the sweet taste. 

“Problem?” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow.

“All this time we’ve been living together, and you don’t know by now that I don’t have sugar in my tea?” John asks. Sherlock gives a tiny shrug.

“I can ask them to get you another.”

“No, I might as well stick with it,” John says, sighing. He could probably do with the kick to his blood sugar levels. He drinks his sugary tea, even though it’s far too sweet.

“These records go back nearly two months,” says Lestrade, and John and Sherlock both look over at him. “Is that when you had the idea, after the TV show went out?”

John puts down his tea, and leans in to listen, keeping his eyes on the two men being questioned. 

“It’s me. It was me.”  The chef turns to the manager. “I’m sorry, Gary – I couldn’t help it. I had a bacon sandwich at Cal’s wedding and one thing just led to another…”

Sherlock stifles a grin. John can’t help feeling vaguely amused himself.

“Nice try,” says Lestrade, looking unimpressed.

“Look,” says Gary, “we were just trying to give things a bit of a boost, you know? A great big dog run wild up on the moor – it was heaven-sent. It was like us having our own Loch Ness Monster.”

“Where do you keep it?” Lestrade asks.

There’s an old mineshaft,” Gary explains “It’s not too far. It was all right there.”

“Was?” Sherlock leaps on the use of the past tense. Gary sighs.

“We couldn’t control the bloody thing,” says Gary regretfully. “It was vicious. And then, a month ago, Billy took him to the vet and, er, you know.”

“It’s dead?” John questions intently.

“Put down,” Gary agrees.

“Yeah. No choice. So it’s over,” Billy confirms.

“It was just a joke, you know?” Gary adds.

“A joke?” John repeats. “Have you seen Henry Knight, recently? You think almost driving a man out of his mind is a _joke?_ ” He glares at them, and the two men look a little subdued.

Lestrade shakes his head, and walks out in disgust. John glances at Sherlock, who seems unmoved, before following Lestrade outside.

“Do you believe them?” Lestrade asks. “That they had it put down, I mean.”

“Not really,” John says thoughtfully. “I think they were just trying to get themselves out of trouble. You know.”

“Right, well, I’ll have a word with the local force, just in case,” says Lestrade. “Catch you later. I’m enjoying this! It’s nice to get London out of your lungs!”

“Will do,” John agrees. He watches Lestrade thoughtfully as the other man walks away.

“So,” says John, as Sherlock exits the inn. “We’re still working with the theory that you and Henry were drugged?”

“Nothing else makes sense,” says Sherlock. “What I saw… my mind had been compromised, that’s the only explanation.”

“By something up at Baskerville,” John adds. Sherlock nods. “Which means we need to get inside again, except that the ID trick isn’t going to work a second time.” John eyes Sherlock’s disgruntled expression, and smirks. “You’re going to try Mycroft, aren’t you?”

Sherlock makes a face.

“I’ll owe him a favour,” he agrees reluctantly. “But we _need_ to search that base.”

John watches with amusement as Sherlock rings his brother, and negotiates access to the base. By the time he’s done Sherlock is torn between triumph at his success and annoyance at the concessions he’s had to make, but it’s clear that he and John have been given the access that they need.

They head out to Baskerville, and John immediately begins searching the base, while Sherlock goes off to deal with Barrymore. John has no illusions about how well _that’s_ going to go, but at least Barrymore isn’t in a position to kick them out until their twenty-four hours of access are up.

John heads to Stapleton’s lab first. He doesn’t think she’s responsible, of course; her area of expertise is genetic manipulation, not chemical warfare. But it gives him a place to start, somewhere he can eliminate from suspicion quickly and easily.

The lab is quiet and empty. John strolls through unhurriedly, looking around and cataloguing everything he sees as he goes. 

John glances at a set of arc lights on a stand, and as he looks at them, they suddenly light up. Recoiling on instinct, closing his eyes against the effects of the bright light, John looks away and tries to blink away the whiteness filling his vision, but to no avail. As though the lights were some sort of signal, all of a sudden an alarm begins to blare.

John keeps blinking, feeling disoriented, barely able to see through his dazzled eyes. He half-feels his way to the door, and swipes his security pass, but the lock bleeps and the door refuses to open.

John feels a tendril of rising panic. Pulling out his phone, he sends off a quick text to Sherlock.

_ Seem to be trapped in Stapleton’s lab. Pass isn’t working. _

He tries the pass again, and a third time, but with each swipe the security system bleeps and refuses to let him out.

It’s while John is trapped in the lab with the alarms going off that the lights go out. The room is lit only be the emergency lighting, dark-red and barely enough to see by. The after-images of the arc lights continue to flash in John’s vision. 

John pauses, as realises that he’s feeling suddenly afraid, his heart racing. The realisation is a shock, because he should have realised it before now, but his brain is moving slowly, like treacle, and John can’t think straight. But that’s not right. John shouldn’t be afraid. He shouldn’t be having this trouble thinking.

He blinks around at the room again, trying to clear his vision and his head, when a shadow flickers across the room. John blinks again, trying to see better, and something rattles loudly to his right. John looks across at the cages covered by sheeting, and hears the rattle again.

There’s something here, in the lab with him, John thinks. He pulls back the sheeting, but the first cage is empty. So is the second. When he pulls back the sheeting to the third cage a monkey hurls itself at the bars, howling and screeching. John stumbles back in shock, heart almost beating out of his chest, or so it feels like.

The third cage is open, but part of the cage is twisted, as though something forced its way out. Something’s loose, John thinks in terror, and he knows that the terror is wrong (he’s never afraid but right now he is _terrified_ ) and something is loose and in this room.

_ Hang on,  _ says a tiny voice inside his head, quietly and reasonably. It sounds like him. John latches onto it desperately. _Do you really think they’d put an animal in a cage that wasn’t strong enough to hold it? Or that they wouldn’t notice that an animal was loose in a lab?_

That sounds logical, John thinks. But what if they didn’t? What if there’s an animal in here with him, right now?

_ Then why hasn’t it attacked? _ says the little voice in John’s head. He rubs his sweating palms against his pants. _Come on, why aren’t you THINKING?_

Yes, John thinks. Why isn’t he thinking properly? 

_ Why are you so afraid when nothing’s happened to you? Why are you panicking? Something’s very wrong,  _ adds the little voice. It’s a persuasive, reassuring voice. _I think you’ve been drugged._

But who would drug him? And when?

_ Sherlock _ , says the little voice, and with sudden clarity, John remembers earlier; how he’d come out to find Sherlock drinking a cup of tea, one for John sitting next to him. But John hadn’t seen the cup of tea being made… and Sherlock had watched him drink it, the entire time… and it had been so sweet, the taste of sugar disguising the taste of the tea itself.

_ You’ve been stupid,  _ says the little voice. _You’ve been so fucking stupid. Sherlock drugged you, and you didn’t even see it coming._

John hears another rattle, and a low growl, and tells himself that it’s all in his head. He sits down with his back to one of the empty cages, closes his eyes, puts his hands over his ears, and breathes.

His world is all fear and darkness, and John rides it out, trying to keep his breathing slow and even. His heart-rate slows after a while, and the little voice in his head says, _Good. Keep on going. You can do it._

John startles almost out of his skin when _something_ touches his elbow. His eyes shoot open in horror, to see Sherlock looking at him with concern. John is disproportionately relieved to see him, so glad that he’s no longer alone. The lights are all back on, bright and white, and John wonders when that happened.

_ Don’t forget, he drugged you. He did this to you. You can’t trust him. _

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks worriedly.

“No,” John mutters. _Punch him in the face. It’s the least he deserves._ “I’ve been drugged.”

“Did you see the hound?” Sherlock asks intently, and John shakes his head.

“I was drugged,” he tells Sherlock again. “It wasn’t real.”

“But you saw it?” Sherlock persists.

“No,” John repeats. “I heard it. But it wasn’t real. I’ve been drugged.”

“We have _all_ been drugged,” Sherlock told him. “Can you walk?”

“Of course I can walk,” John says, and staggers to his feet. His heart-rate is calming again, with Sherlock here and the lights all back on. _They were on all along. You were hallucinating the darkness._

“Come on, then,” says Sherlock. “It’s time to lay this ghost to rest.”

He walks away without waiting for John. _I can’t forgive this,_ John thinks, and waits for his thoughts to return to their usual speed and clarity. _But I won’t let on yet. Not until I’m fine._

He shakily follows Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock threatens Stapleton into letting him use her microscope. John sits down on a stool and props his head in one hand, staring into the middle-distance while his thoughts churn.

He’s starting to feel better now, his mind returning to its usual state, and beginning to comprehend the extent of Sherlock’s betrayal. Rage is blooming, deep in his gut, and John really, really wants to have it all out with Sherlock. Instead he tells himself to wait a little longer, and stares into space, while Sherlock sits at the microscope and is completely oblivious.

Stapleton engages him in conversation, and John is vaguely grateful for the distraction. They discuss her work on the glow-in-the-dark rabbit, and the ethics of such research. The conversation is rudely interrupted when Sherlock suddenly snatches up the slide he was looking at and throws it against the nearest wall.

“It’s not there!” Sherlock spits, and Stapleton looks startled and shocked by the display of temper. John just smiles faintly. So the drug wasn’t administered to them through the sugar; Sherlock’s just thrown away his friendship with John, and the experiment he risked it for wasn’t even using _valid data._ It’s a little ironic.

“Shouldn’t you have tested the sugar before your little attempt to replicate the effects?” John asks idly, and Sherlock looks at him with an expression of sudden alarm as he realises that John knows the truth about what happened earlier. John keeps his face impassive and doesn’t show his feelings at all.

“What?” Stapleton asks, and John waves the question away.

“Oh, nothing. You don’t need to know. Just, Sherlock expected to find some kind of drug in among the sugar Henry Knight’s been eating, and can’t believe that it’s come up clean.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock mutters frustratedly, once again paying no attention to John, preoccupied with the case. “It’s a simple process of elimination. I saw the hound, saw it as my imagination expected me to see it: a genetically engineered monster. But I knew I couldn’t believe the evidence of my own eyes, so there were seven possible reasons for it, the most possible being narcotics. Henry Knight – he saw it too but you didn’t, John. You didn’t see it. Now, we have eaten and drunk exactly the same things since we got to Grimpen apart from one thing: you don’t take sugar in your coffee.”

He closes his eyes, clearly thinking furiously.

“Usually,” John adds ironically. Sherlock still pays him no attention, too lost in his own thoughts.

“So how did it get into our systems? _How?_ There has to be something…” His eyes shoot open. “Something buried deep.” He turns and points at the door. “Get out,” he tells Stapleton. He doesn’t bother asking John, and John knows that he must be about to go through his mind palace; John never interrupts him when he’s doing that, but other people usually do.

“What?” Stapleton asks indignantly.

“Get out,” Sherlock repeats, as though he’s made a perfectly reasonable request. “I need to go to my mind palace.”

“Gladly,” John snipes, slipping off his stool and turning back to face Stapleton. “He’s not gonna be doing much talking for a while. We may as well go.”

Sherlock sends John a swift glance, but John ignores it as he guides Stapleton out of her lab.

“His what?” Stapleton asks John, still looking bewildered.

“Oh, his mind palace,” John responds on automatic. His thoughts are whirling around Sherlock’s perfidy again. “It’s a memory technique; a sort of mental map. You plot a map with a location – it doesn’t have to be a real place – and then you deposit memories there. Theoretically, you can never forget anything; all you have to do is find your way back to it.”

“So this imaginary location can be anything – a house or a street,” Stapleton says.

“Yeah,” John confirms.

“But he said ‘palace’,” Stapleton points out. “He said it was a palace.”

John smiles bitterly.

“Yeah, well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

Stapleton glances sideways at him.

“What you said earlier, about replicating the effects – did he really _drug_ you?”

“Yes,” John says shortly.

“Aren’t you… aren’t you upset?” Stapleton asks tentatively. 

“Oh, furious,” John assures her. “But that’s a discussion I’m best off leaving until he can pay proper attention to it.”

“Are you okay?” Stapleton looks concerned, and rather disturbed.

“No,” says John. “I’m really not. As soon as this case is over, that git can solve cases by himself. I’m done.”

Stapleton looks sympathetic.

“Look, there’s a break room a few corridors over,” she says. “Do you want to get something to eat while he’s – what, using his mind palace?”

John hasn’t eaten or drunk anything for a while, and the last thing he drank had been drugged.

“That’s probably a good idea,” John agrees.

As they eat John’s tells Stapleton stories of his and Sherlock’s cases, carefully edited, and if Stapleton doesn’t start reading his blog after this he’ll be very surprised. She’s reluctantly fascinated, asking questions about the current case, when John hears the quiet, discreet _ping_ that indicates that he’s just received a message on his Moriarty phone.

That’s one thing he can look forward to, John thinks as he checks the phone, shielding it between the table and his body so that the security cameras can’t see it; he won’t need to keep up all this rubbish to do with two identities. He can just go back to being Moriarty, no one else. No more John Watson; no more pretending to be stupid and unobservant, no more responding to his hated father’s name, no more teasing about him and Sherlock….

The rage he’s currently suppressing threatens to bubble up, and John forces it down again, and reads the text from Moran.

_ I’ve got the information you want. Call me. _

“Is something wrong?” Stapleton asks, seeing John’s frown.

“No, no, nothing wrong,” John assures her, tucking his phone away again. “But I need to leave the base for a while.”

* * *

John takes the jeep, and makes sure he’s a few hundred yards away from the base and its security before he parks the car by the side of the road and rings Moran.

“ _Moran here,_ ” the familiar voice responds.

“Moriarty,” John identifies himself, his voice slipping into the smooth, even tones he usually uses when he’s dealing with business matters. “Tell me what you’ve got.”

Moran spells it all out for him. Project H.O.U.N.D.: a hallucinogenic, aerosol-distributed drug which rendered its victims extremely suggestible, its planned use as an anti-personnel weapon to disorient the enemy using fear and stimulus. Prolonged use drove the subjects insane, rendering them almost uncontrollably aggressive and paranoid, and causing significant brain damage to the frontal lobe and amygdala in particular. The project was shut done in 1986, after several of the subjects committed multiple homicides.

John is grim by the time Moran finishes. He might not be a nice man, but he still had principles. The systematic experimentation on human subjects to produce such effects leaves him feeling vaguely ill, although it doesn’t surprise him that such experimentation took place. As a major crime lord with wide influence, John has seen more than his fair share of the nastier side of human nature.

“Someone at Baskerville was involved with the project,” he tells Moran. “Who?”

“ _Robert Falkland,_ ” Moran replies. “ _He’s the only person at Baskerville who worked on  the project._ ”

“Right,” says John. “Excellent work, Sebastian.” 

He hangs up, and pulls out his other phone, the one that used to be Harry’s, and rings Sherlock. It almost rings out before Sherlock picks up.

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock barks impatiently, and John grits his teeth.

“I know what’s going on and who’s responsible. Meet me outside the base, by the jeep,” says John, and ends the call. He wanders a few metres away from the jeep, out into the grass and plants by the road.

It takes Sherlock about five minutes before he joins John, and John spends that time thinking over what he’s about to say. And then he lets his rage bubble up and take over.

“Well?” Sherlock demands, approaching John, “Who–” he falls silent as he sees John’s expression. John’s face is hard and his eyes are icy.

“You drugged me,” says John. He’s so blindingly angry he can barely see straight. “I trusted you with everything, and you _drugged_ me. You took away my control, you disabled my brain, and left me helpless and afraid. And I _trusted_ you.”

John’s voice is smooth and cold, the way it so rarely is around Sherlock, and from the look on his face Sherlock is finally beginning to understand that he’s messed up big-time.

John stares at him, and thinks that he’s never felt so angry or so betrayed in all his life. This, he thinks, is why he never has friends. But he’d thought Sherlock would be different. Thought he _was_ different.

“That’s it,” he says. “I’m done. John Watson is over. I’m leaving.”

“Wait!” Sherlock grabs John’s arm, and John turns on him, snarling.

“ _I am Moriarty_ , did you forget that? Did you forget what I can do? Did you think I would forgive you for compromising the two things about myself I care about most? Did you think I would be _nice_ about it?” He shakes Sherlock’s hand away. Sherlock looks devastated. “You violated me, in the worst way I can imagine, because I was left _helpless._ Do you understand that? Do you even realise what you’ve done?”

“I didn’t think you’d mind–” Sherlock starts.

“ _Lie_.”

“I didn’t think you’d be this angry!” Sherlock tells the truth this time, looking distressed and almost frightened. John hasn’t seen him look anything like this since they were standing by the pool, when O’Sullivan was playing megalomaniac and Sherlock thought they might both die.

“But you knew I’d be upset,” says John, because he knows Sherlock. “You knew that, and you weighed it against the possible results of your little experiment, and you decided that how I felt wasn’t important. But I’m always important, Sherlock, and I refuse to stay with someone who thinks otherwise.”

Sherlock looks stricken, like it’s finally dawned on him that this is it, his idyllic little friendship with John is over, and John is never coming back.

“John,” he says, and his voice breaks. “ _Please_.” He sounds terrified. “Don’t go.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I need you,” Sherlock says, quietly but desperately. “I can’t go back to how it was before. You know I don’t have friends. I just have you. Please.”

John just stares coldly at him. The fury has dulled a little in the face of Sherlock’s obvious fear of losing him, so that John isn’t seeing red anymore, but he’s still very angry. The truth is, he doesn’t really want to leave Sherlock, not deep down, but oh, he is so very, very angry. And beneath the anger, John is _hurt_ , in a way he never allows himself to be. Not until Sherlock, and John hates himself for putting himself in a position where Sherlock was _able_ to hurt him. He hates that he believed that Sherlock was different to all the other human beings out there, who make mistakes and hurt people they care about and break people’s trust every single day.

When did John start trusting Sherlock for real?

“I’m sorry,” says Sherlock. “I give you my word I won’t do it again.”

“You won’t have the chance to,” John says, brutally honest. Sherlock swallows.

“John,” he says helplessly, “I’ve never met anyone like you, and I never will again. Just give me another chance.”

And that stops John, because what Sherlock has said resonates. Sherlock is right; they’re both unique, and they won’t meet anyone like each other ever again. John hadn’t ever realised how bored and lonely he was, until Sherlock. From the look on Sherlock’s face, he was the same.

That’s when John realises, with a spike of frustrated, savage fury, that he can’t simply walk away. Sherlock has _gotten_ to him, and even if he leaves now Sherlock will still be in his thoughts, and John will never forget what it felt like to have him as a friend.

John makes a furious noise.

“Fine. I’ll stay. But I don’t trust you,” he tells Sherlock point-blank, and sees Sherlock wince, “and I’m still bloody _furious_ at you. If anyone else had betrayed me like this, they’d be dead. So count yourself lucky, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock looks appropriately chastened, but the look of relief on his face makes John want to punch him.

“Oh,” John adds, just as Sherlock is beginning to relax, “and if you ever try anything like this again, that will be the last time you ever see me. That’s a promise. I suggest you think _hard_ about it.”

With that, John turns and stalks away, still seething.

“But what about the killer?” Sherlock has the temerity to shout after him.

“Bob Falkland!” John calls back over his shoulder. “He was part of Project H.O.U.N.D. in Liberty, Indiana, until it was shut down in eighty-six. The drug caused significant brain damage and left subjects aggressive and paranoid. I’m sure you can work with that.”

John gets into the jeep and slams the door behind him, and starts the car. He leaves Sherlock standing by the side of the road, a lone, mournful figure in the rear-view mirror as he drives away.

* * *

Lestrade takes one look at John’s face when he walks into the inn and asks, “Christ, what’s Sherlock done now?”

“Tested a hallucinogen on me,” John says wearily. “I need a beer.”

“He – what?” Lestrade looks horrified. “Jesus, _why?_ ”

“He wanted to test a theory,” says John, as he walks over to the bar and asks for a beer. Lestrade stares at him, like he’s waiting for more, but when John stays silent, he shakes his head.

“That’s it? He drugged you to test a _theory?_ ” Lestrade looks appalled, and John feels a sudden, tired rush of liking for the man. It’s not often that John meets genuinely decent people, but Lestrade is definitely one of them. “You know, you could press charges?”

John chuckles wryly as he sips his beer.

“I’d prefer not to get the law involved, thanks. Besides, I just had it all out with him. He’s not going to do that again.”

“How can you be sure?” Lestrade asks, looking worried. John looks up, and meets Lestrade’s eyes steadily. 

“Because if he so much as tries, I’m gone. I will disappear so thoroughly he’ll never find me again, and he knows it.”

Lestrade looks faintly stunned by the strength of John’s sincerity, and John glances away again, back at his beer.

“I suppose that would do it,” he agrees. He hesitates. “He does care about you, though, you know – although God, you wouldn’t know it when he pulls a stunt like this.”

“Think about it, though,” says John. “He’s a former drug addict. What kind of attitude do you think he has towards drugs?”

“ _Oh_ ,” says Lestrade, and then, “that explains it, I suppose. Still. Drugging you without your consent? That’s a new low.”

John feels the vibration at the same time as his phone goes off. A look at the caller tells him it’s Sherlock, and for a moment John considers hanging up, but under the circumstances Sherlock’s likely calling about the case.

“What is it?” he asks, as he answers the call.

“ _Henry Knight,_ ” Sherlock says urgently. “ _Doctor Mortimer just called. He’s been behaving erratically, attacked her. He’ll be heading out to Dewer’s Hollow, and he’s armed. You need to stop him.”_

John feels himself go on alert, putting it together. He asks anyway, mostly for Lestrade’s benefit.

“He’s been dosed?”

“ _Probable. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can get a lift. Go._ ”

John hangs up the phone, already getting to his feet.

“Come on,” he says to Lestrade. 

“Why, what’s going on?” Lestrade asks, already following as John starts for the door.

“Our client’s been drugged,” John throws over his shoulder, “he’s armed and behaving erratically. It’s possible he might harm himself or others.”

Lestrade swears, and follows John out to the jeep.

* * *

They find Knight squatting down in the middle of the valley, his gun half-way to his mouth.

“Henry!” John calls out. “Stop!”

He and Lestrade scramble down the slope as Knight stumbles backwards, waving his gun. His eyes are wide and confused and full of terror, his voice hysterical as he shouts at them.

“Get back! Get- get away from me!”

John and Lestrade come to a stop, and John trains his eyes on the gun, his brain going into overdrive as he catalogues everything relevant about the man.

He steps forward.

“Easy, Henry. Easy. Just relax,” John says, in a steady, reassuring voice.

“I know what I am. I know what I tried to do!” Henry cries out, shaking.

“Just put the gun down,” John tells him. “It’s not your fault.”

“No!” Knight shrieks. “No, I know what I am!” He waves the gun in John’s direction.

John pauses, and stays where he is.

“It’s been explained to you, hasn’t it?” he asks, keeping his voice level. “Someone’s explained it all to you, so very carefully, haven’t they, Henry?”

“What?” Knight looks bewildered and frightened. John steps forward again.

“Someone’s been trying to keep you quiet,” John continues, because Sherlock’s not here, and he’ll be damned if they lose this poor bastard at this point just because John wanted to keep his abilities concealed. If he has to, John can pack up and disappear. But he’s not letting this poor sod die. “Because you’ve been starting to remember, haven’t you Henry?”

John can feel Lestrade’s eyes on him, but Knight is looking confused and desperate, hanging on John’s every word. John takes another step closer, and keeps talking.

“You’ve started to remember what happened here, when you were only a little boy. Haven’t you?”

Knight trembles like a leaf in a strong wind, and his gun hand droops for a moment before he levels the gun again.

“I thought it had got my dad – the hound. I thought...” He starts to scream. “Oh Je - oh Jesus, I don’t – I don’t know any more!”

Sobbing, Knight bends over and tries to put the pistol in his mouth again.

“Henry,” John says gently, but firmly. “Remember. ‘Liberty, In.’  Remember that? You saw those words, twenty years ago.”

Knight is still sobbing, but he’s listening.

“You’ve started to piece things together, remember what really happened here that night. It wasn’t an animal, though, was it?” John says persuasively. “It was a man.”

Knight’s eyes widen, and he stares at John as though he’s never seen him before.

“You were only a kid,” says John carefully. “You couldn’t cope with what you’d seen, so you rationalised it, dreaming up something else that was easier to deal with. But then you started to remember the truth, so you had to be stopped. You were drugged, with the aim of driving you out of your mind so that no one would believe anything you said.”

John steps forward again, and gently takes the gun from Henry.

“But it’s okay. We know the truth now. It’s alright, Henry.”

Knight is crying.

“But we saw it - the hound, last night. We s– we, we, we did, we saw…” His words dissolve into stammers, spoken between sobs. John pats his shoulder soothingly.

“That’s because there _was_ a dog, Henry. A big, black dog, that the blokes who run the local inn have been using to scare the tourists. But it was just a dog. You and Sherlock only saw it the way you did because you’d been drugged, which was messing with your perceptions.”

John knows that Lestrade is staring at him in amazement. He’ll come up with a story later, of how Sherlock had explained the case to him, persuade Lestrade that nothing he’s said is particularly remarkable.

“I’m a doctor, Henry,” he says kindly. “Trust me. Drugs can do weird things.”

Knight is trembling, but he’s finally calming down, when a howl rings out. John immediately aims his flashlight at the top of the valley, Lestrade following suit, where a snarling shape is moving low to the ground.

Henry starts to wail, going back into a panic, and John has had enough of this. He swears viciously, and says, “Greg, keep your torch trained on it.”

“Sure,” says Lestrade, as the dog moves closer and John’s hand slips beneath his jumper, “but what are you–?”

John pulls his gun out of the holster, aims, and fires once.

The dog collapses to the ground. Lestrade swears loudly, but John is busy trying to calm Knight again.

“It’s alright, the dog’s dead, Henry,” he says, but Knight won’t stop his wailing, and nothing John or Lestrade is saying to him is helping.

John suddenly feels eyes on him, an instinctive prickle at the back of his neck, and glances over his shoulder.

There’s a figure in the mist, wearing a breathing mask with a clear visor at the front, and John suddenly realises why Knight isn’t calming, and why John himself is becoming agitated.

They’ve all been drugged. The growing mist they’ve been steadily ignoring is Project H.O.U.N.D., and they’ve been breathing it in for minutes.

John restrains the impulse to simply shoot the figure – after all, a representative of the law is present - and instead rushed the figure, forcing the mask upwards to expose the face below. John finds himself staring into the red, angry face of his father.

John recoils, in shock at what he’s just seen. His father is dead, has been dead these last twenty years, John made sure of it _himself_ , so _how_ – 

The face in front of him wavers, changes, before John sees his father’s visage again, and John realises: the mist he’s been breathing in is a hallucinogenic drug. Eyes narrowing in fury, John punches the familiar face as hard as he can. He feels something crack and give under his fingers, and brings his other fist up to punch the bastard in the stomach. He crumples to the ground, moaning, and this time as John looks at him he sees Bob Frankland, face dark with blood from his broken nose.

“John, what the hell is going on?” Lestrade asks, looking shaken and unnerved. “Who the blazes is that?”

“We’ve been drugged again, that’s what’s going on,” John says grimly. “The mist – it’s the drug, in aerosolised form.” He kicks Frankland in the ribs, because after being drugged twice today John is in a bad mood. “Meet Bob Frankland. He’s responsible for the murder of Henry’s father twenty years ago.” 

Lestrade immediately tries to stop himself from breathing in too much of the mist, even though his efforts aren’t likely to do much good.

Knight is still in a right state, and John approaches him carefully.

“Henry. It’s alright. It’s just a dog. Come have a look.”

Knight starts saying ‘no’ over and over again, shaking his head, but John is heaving none of it. Through coaxing and tugging Knight forward John brings him close enough to see the dog’s body, and Lestrade helpfully shines the torch on it from where he’s standing next to Frankland.

At first Knight can’t bring himself to look, but then, bracing himself, he looks down. There’s a long moment where he just stares, his breathing slowing. Then, with a scream of rage, he turns and hurls himself at where Frankland is still lying making sounds of pain on the ground. 

“ _Twenty years! Twenty years of my life making no sense!”_ he roars into Frankland’s face. “ _Why didn’t you just kill me?!”_

It takes Lestrade a moment or two to pull Knight off Frankland, as angry as he is. John makes no move to help. Being yelled at is far less than Frankland deserves.

“Because he needed to discredit you,” John says softly, ruminatively, as he walks over. Knight is sobbing again, but with rage this time rather than fear. “Killing you would have just raised even more questions about what had happened to you and your father. But this way, no one would ever listen to you. Elegant, but despicable.”

“So…” Knight begins shakily, “this means… this means, my father was _right_.” He tries to go for Frankland again, but Lestrade holds him back. Frankland starts to get to his feet, but John pulls out his gun again and aims it with cold eyes, and Frankland goes still.

“He found something out, didn’t he, and that’s why you’d killed him – because he was right, and he’d found you right in the middle of an experiment,” Knight says, and for the first time this evening he looks almost calm.

There’s movement at the top of the hollow, and John turns, but the tall thin silhouette is familiar. Sherlock.

Behind him are a couple of local policemen, who take in the scene with a certain amount of bewilderment.

John sighs. 

* * *

John considers getting a lift back with Lestrade, but in the end, he drives back to London with Sherlock.

There’s a heavy silence in the jeep; John hasn’t forgotten his anger of yesterday, or what Sherlock did to him. But he’s rationalised it now, dissected and analysed it, and when he thinks about Sherlock drugging him it’s with a cool head, not the anger and hurt of the day before.

“When we get back, I’m going to be busy,” says John, into the silence. His voice is detached, calm, and smooth. Sherlock glances at him, but doesn’t say anything. “There’s some projects I’ve been putting off for a while now that I want to go ahead with, and they’re going to take up a certain amount of my time. So I won’t be able to spend as much time accompanying you on cases, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock watches John for a long minute.

“You were putting them off for personal reasons,” he says finally. “Me.”

“That’s right,” says John, watching the road ahead of them. “And now those reasons are no longer valid, so I’ll be pushing forward with my plans.”

“I apologised,” says Sherlock, a little sullenly.

“An apology isn’t a magical key to getting whatever you want, Sherlock,” John says calmly. “It’s an acknowledgement that you messed up, that’s all it is. It’s words. Words don’t impress me, Sherlock, words are _cheap_. I have all the words I need.”

“I don’t know what you want me to do,” says Sherlock, somewhere between contrite and frustrated.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” says John. His smile in the rear-view is wintry and cold. “I’m Moriarty, Sherlock. I suggest you try not to forget that again.”

John certainly isn’t going to. 

Never again.

 


End file.
